


No Umbrellas!

by Sketch_A_Bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg is NOT going to gift sex toys for christmas, Harry Potter References, M/M, Mycroft has a secret umbrella stash, Or dead mice, Sherlock and John are sassy lil shits, The Government is hard to gift shop for, and Greg can't help but snoop, thank you very much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketch_A_Bow/pseuds/Sketch_A_Bow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can be said? Brief one-shot of absurd events with a shot of fluff. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Umbrellas!

     Lestrade found Mycroft’s house fascinating. Though he had visited numerous times, stayed for dinner, stayed the night, there was always a new thing to discover. He swore that the place had been built with a nod towards Hogwarts, including multiple staircases and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of doorways and corridors. He slowly attempted to map out the mansion, using the quiet alone time he had in the mornings when he would wake up to find Mycroft already gone, or when the Government had to run off in the middle of dinner to save the day. Exploring kept him from getting annoyed and eased his temper, and sometimes if he stuck around long enough, Myc returned home and he got to have great apology sex.

 

                It was two weeks before Christmas, and Greg had been spending every possible night over at… what was he now? Boyfriend? Shag buddy? Life partner? Seemed a bit too soon for the last, and the term ‘shag’ would leave Myc in absolute disgust. Boyfriend it was then. He had spent as many nights as possible at his _boyfriend’s_ house, as opposed to his sad, freezing excuse for a flat. And, since politics and war didn’t give a flying fuck about what month it was, Mycroft had been gone just as much as usual. Which left Greg plenty of time to think of what Myc meant to him, what HE meant to Mycroft, and what one got one’s boyfriend/shag buddy/lover/partner for Christmas. This conundrum was quantified by the fact of who his significant other was.  He had attempted to ask Donovan for help, she was serious for a few moments before suggesting various sex toys and favors. Then he had tried to ask John if he could discreetly attempt to jimmy suggestions from Sherlock. That had ended with Sherlock calling him to proclaim that he should gift Mycroft with a cake full of dead mice, to “help along his diet.” Lestrade had given John an earful later, to which he had sheepishly replied, “Well, it certainly would put him off the sweets for a bit.” Gits, the both of them. No wonder they got along so splendidly. Lestrade was getting slightly anxious, knowing that he couldn’t get Myc just any old gift. It had to be the best.

 

                Then, Greg found the Room of Requirement. It was another of those early mornings, and Greg had ventured into the slightly less used left wing of the house. He had been wandering for a few hours, bemusedly wondering if he should have left a breadcrumb trail. Mycroft would bemoan the mess. Remembering a trick from his adventure books, Greg had decided to stick with left-turns and hallways only, and up rather than down every staircase. He eventually ended up near what he assumed was the attic, in an immaculate but clearly abandoned corridor with only a single door on the right. With a chuckle, Greg entertained the idea of stumbling upon a secret torture and interrogation room, or perhaps a dungeon. What he found was so much more bizarre.

 

                Umbrellas. He was attacked, by umbrellas. Greg had leaned forward and opened the plain, old door, and had been buried under brollies. He couldn’t help letting a chuckle escape. Of course, Mycroft was just the sort of bloody weirdo to have a room full of umbrellas. If any sneaky news reporter ever came around looking for dirt, well watch out, Mycroft Holmes has a big secret room… of weather accessories. And they were all sorts, too. Polka dotted, striped, some in rainbows, another in robin’s egg blue. A neon yellow one made his eyes hurt, and a heavy looking faux leather one had bonked him on the noggin. Greg’s giggle turned into a full on laugh as he realized he was pinned under the flood of waterproof fabrics and metal tines. He squirmed and wriggled, only succeeding in getting himself more wedged into the mess. He grimaced as he felt a handle poking into his side, but least it would make a good story later. It could be worse.

 

 

 

                Three hours later, it was worse. Greg’s left leg had lost feeling, and he was hungry. He was by no means a young man, and Greg knew by the time he was rescued-an unpleasantly unlikely occurrence- that his back would be torture.  In the last half-hour or so, he had taken up one of the longer umbrellas (an eclectic paisley piece, in bright green) and was alternately banging on the wall and yelling hoarsely down the hallway. He knew nobody else would be in the house today, besides Myc. If he assumed that Greg had gone to work, or was angry at his latest departure and had gone home, it would be quite a while before someone realized he was gone. And even then, would they look here? He had made sure Mycroft didn’t know he snuck around his house like a stalker, and if he remembered correctly, housekeeping came on Tuesdays. It was… Friday now.  Greg thought of slowly starving underneath the pile of fashion disaster and moaned, letting his head thunk back onto the polished wood floor.

 

              “Gregory?”

 

              Greg jumped, dislodging another of the offending umbrellas and sending it rolling across the floor.

 

              “Myc?” he called. He watched with a mixture of embarrassed glee as he saw the thin figure stroll around the corner, impeccable as ever and with a frown of concern and confusion etched across his face.

 

             “Good lord… Gregory? What in the Queen’s name are you doing?”

 

            “Oh, you know, just enjoying the day. Thought I might go for a stroll later, looked stormy. Wanted to mix up the fashion a bit, was feeling whimsical. How d’you like this one?” He waved about a deep indigo one, with gold and green designs. He smirked as Mycroft’s face slipped from disbelieving into incredulous, ending with a roll of his eyes.

 

             “Really Gregory, you have the nerve to be cheeky while being trapped under a pile of umbrellas after CLEARLY being caught somewhere you shouldn't of been. For a man of the Met, you most certainly get into a lot of trouble.”

 

               ”Christ, I know, I know. Just get me out of here Myc. You can tease me and be cross later. My back is about done in.” Greg looked up to see Mycroft’s face soften, and he kneeled down next to him and began to neatly pluck umbrellas off of the pile and efficiently stack them out of the way. As he watched him work, Greg wondered why he hadn’t thought of that. Then the psychic voiced his question.

 

              “Gregory, you do realize you could have gotten yourself unstuck from this mess in the time it took me to happen across you here. Were you planning to wither away and die, trumped by a few inanimate objects?” Greg grumbled at his bloody brilliant boyfriend.

 

              “No, but it is much nicer to be rescued by a handsome prince that sorting it all out yourself, eh?” Mycroft rolled his eyes again, but Greg could tell he enjoyed the flattery. He finished clearing the hateful things away from Greg, and offered him a hand and a smirk as he stood up.

 

              “My lovely princess, are you injured? Shall I carry you away from danger?”

 

 

              “No,” Greg winced as he stood, “But perhaps a shoulder to lean on would be nice.”

 

 

                After they had hobbled down the winding route back to the main part of the house, Greg promptly crawled over to the sofa and collapsed, face first.

 

               “Now now,” Mycroft chided, strolling out with two cups of tea, “No need to be like that dear.” He prodded Greg’s shoulder until he sat up, and handed him his cup.

 

               “Thanks,” Greg said, sipping on the piping beverage and letting it soothe his cramped muscles some. Mycroft sat down elegantly next to him on the couch, and allowed the silence to stretch. But Greg knew it was coming.

 

              “So…” Mycroft finally ventured, and Greg moaned before falling dramatically across his lap.

 

               “What?” Greg peeked out of his eyelashes to see Myc looking slightly scandalized. They stared at each other for a moment before he bulled on.

 

              “What were you doing all the way up in the top of the left wing? Do we have a pet rabbit that escaped without my knowledge?”

 

              “No,” Greg sighed, “I was snooping about your house.”

 

              "Excuse me?”

 

             “Oi, you heard me. I was peeking about. And I’m allowed to aren’t I? I’m allowed to go poking about my boyfriend’s house, especially when he gets up and leaves me alone all hours of the day.” He finished his rant and chanced a look up. Mycroft was just staring at him.

 

             “What?” he asked, growing slightly uneasy under that unblinking gaze.

 

 

             “Is that what I am to you? Your… boyfriend?”

 

            “Well, yeah,” Greg said, realizing his blunder. “I mean, I thought about it, and that’s the closest thing I could find. I knew you wouldn’t like the term lovers, and we are not just friends anymore. Life partners just didn’t seem qui-“ He mumbled to a stop as Mycroft soundly snogged him half to death. Mycroft finally relented, and Greg looked at him a bit dazed.

 

           “That a good thing then?”

 

            “Oh, most definitely,” Mycroft purred. “You know I love a good title.”

 

           “Dear god,” Greg mock sighed. “Is that what I am now, a living title?”

 

          “Good heavens no,” he replied smoothly. “You have many other…benefits as well.” Greg snorted, shoving lightly at Myc’s shoulder as he giggled.

 

          “Well, that adventure didn’t help much, but it did answer one thing for me”

 

           “Oh?”

 

           “Yeah, I am most assuredly NOT getting you an umbrella for Christmas.”

 

 

 

~~ Finis~~

 


End file.
